Human Emotions
by Vevith
Summary: John concluded that human emotions were the downfall of the greatest man he has ever known. It didn't even matter that he wasn't aware he had any.


**A/N: Hi, I'm new to this. I would like to apologize for the following. It's angst like, whoa. I would also be happy if anyone would help me with the grammar and spelling errors. Thank you! This is a one-shot. T for cuss words.**

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><p>Human emotions<p>

_By: Vevith_

He tried to be Sherlock on this. He stood on that same edge (though Scotland Yard moved a lot away already and the blood didn't even stain on the concrete below) and he looks at where he is. The air smells different up on the roof, more metallic, more _sharp_. (More like blood.) Everything is gray. The concrete, the sky, the sidewalk below.

(John Watson also sees splats of red, but he ignores that.)

He knows Sherlock isn't, _wasn't_, a fraud, and he knows that Sherlock didn't give a crap what everyone else thought. So he knows Sherlock didn't jump off the ledge because of peer pressure.

(Unless Sherlock was a fraud. But he wasn't a fraud. John Watson refuse to believe Sherlock Holmes was a fraud.)

(Right?)

Sherlock usually did this, his mind said. Sherlock would know it by now. Sherlock would be fine with this, probably a four on his unreliable scale. Actually, Sherlock would have solved it by now and is currently shooting at the wall in the flat while loudly demand his 'stash' he insists they still hid in the flat.

(They threw it out months ago.)

(Sherlock knows.)

Why isn't Sherlock doing this? And for a moment, he didn't understand at all why. He doesn't understand why he has to live a life without Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't understand why life had thrown him into Sherlock Holmes's life and then kicked him out.

(You are not Sherlock Holmes, his mind said.)

(Hopefully I don't have to be, he said back.)

He pulls out his phone and stares at it. The screen broke when he fell, and his eyes follow the jagged edges. He analyzes their last phone call, word by word to find a trigger, a signal, an anything at all.

(He doesn't.)

He wishes he inspected the body a bit more, but at the same time he's glad.

(He has enough memories haunting his dreams.)

But he didn't need to worry about that. Molly did his autopsy, and Molly would have been more careful about Sherlock than him anyway.

(She is.)

He reads over her report anyways.

(She lies in it.)

Lestrade and Anderson offered their condolences. And Donovan stands off to the side. She looks away when he looks at her.

(She means to say I'm sorry.)

(He accepts it. But he will never forgive her)

(He can't look at Anderson.)

He wish he had some strong coffee, and milk. _What was that thing with the milk?_ Sherlock didn't even drink tea most of the time, much less _milk._

(His best theory right now is that Sherlock had been secretly harboring a cat this whole time.)

(Sherlock wasn't.)

(Sherlock is also allergic to cats.)

It's two in the morning and the wind bitterly blows by. It's cold, and he's shivering. He didn't bother with a coat, because every time he puts one around him all he sees is black flapping in the wind, and he can't even look at the scarf. He gave the violin to Mycroft at the funeral.

(He hates the fact that Mycroft didn't cry.)

(He doesn't see Mycroft lighting a cigarette.)

(Molly Hooper also didn't cry.)

He leaves the funeral early, after giving a half-assed excuse for a eulogy filled with cliché that he didn't read (nobody cared about the fact he just mainly choked) before wandering the streets for an hour and finally settling in front of Barts.

(Lestrade find him later that day, alone and cold and broken. Lestrade doesn't understand why he doesn't offer John a ride, even though he knows John wouldn't have taken it. He doesn't understand why he watched John limping all the way back to 221b.)

He notes that the skull Sherlock always talks to is still on the mantel, a thin layer of dust gathering around it. Papers spread across the table and the desk. His latest experiment already cleaned up but the acid marks and chips will always be on the counter and-

He can't do this.

He can't take it. Sherlock is everywhere. His chair is still there, and his music he was composing, and the newspaper still says he's a fraud and the picture of him is with that _ear hat_ he's always hated and-

He slams the door to 221b hoping it would be enough to stop his thoughts as he rushes out.

(It is, and the bang is loud enough to echo around in his head before everything sounds so muddy it all hurts.)

(John concluded that human emotions were the downfall of the greatest man he has ever known. It didn't even matter that he wasn't aware he had any.)

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><p><em>The end<em>


End file.
